“Yes,” I say flatly. “That’s obvious.”
He looks at me and away, his gaze venturing toward the window, the blank sheet of sky outside. “You don’t get it. You think this is just between her and me, a spat between friends. But it’s more than that. It’s all of us. She’s planning something,” he tells me. “Something big. I can feel it.”
I watch him, wishing I could understand his concerns, the things he hasn’t found words for. I see a tangle of emotion shifting across his face and wonder.
He eyes me. “In one way, I was right in those early days. Arla isn’t like the rest of us.”
“Brennan, you’re going to have to be more specific or—”
“She’s channeling us,” he interrupts. “What we can do. But Arla can’t abide competition. So, what do you think that means?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “These things you’re telling me, I have no way of knowing if they’re true.”
He looks disappointed.
“Even if I believe you, how can she do that, Brennan? It doesn’t make sense.”
He shakes his head, and it’s as if a wall goes up. “I wish I could say.”
I sigh, uncertain what to think. “All I know is, you’re the first people I’ve met like me who weren’t in my own family. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel boundless. And that feels fucking good.”
Brennan looks sad, wilted like week-old flowers. “Mark my words,” he says, “she’s working on something. Maybe she always has been. And once we become disposable…” His eyes find mine across the room. “Well, all your boundless feelings can’t save you then.”
I stand to my full height and take a step away, a chill penetrating the hotel that isn’t coming from the vent. The Arla I know is incisive and controlled. Ambitious perhaps, bold, even pushy. But still a far cry from homicidal maniac. “I have one more question before I leave.”
He smiles, but it’s not welcoming. “Sure.”
“What’s in Arla’s basement? In the locked room beneath Medusa?”
His face rearranges itself around a secret he won’t share, but I can see it burning inside him—he knows. He’s seen. Fear flits behind his eyes, urgent and restless.
“Maybe you understand after all,” he says, getting up and walking to the bathroom. He closes the door after him, leaving me alone to guess.
18THE HEART OF THE GORGON
After leaving Brennan, I start a dozen texts to Arla and erase them all, too chickenshit to tell her what I know. Instead, I end up calling the gallery where I bought the painting and ask for information on the artist, telling the woman over the phone (who sounds different than the previous one) I’m interested in a commission after all, but want to speak with the painter directly. She gives me a name and number which I use to look up a studio address somewhere on the bay. I decide to extend my lunch break and drive over.
I pull up in front a mid-century ranch with a low-slung roof, a corner of windows, and a turquoise front door. Getting out, I grab the painting from under the jacket I threw over it a couple of nights ago and haul it with me, rapping on the wooden door. When I don’t get a response, I knock harder.
It takes a minute, but when the door opens, I see the same woman who sold me the painting the day I was in the gallery. The same tiny frame and nest of white fluff, the same skinny arms dabbled in paint. The same moon-shaped face and unnerving eyes passing over me. I can hear Tori Amos playing quietly in the background. “Yes?”
“It’s you. You’re the artist, A. Nilsen?”
“I am Anneli,” she says, squinting at me. “It’s my gallery. Why?”
I hold the painting up for her to see. “You painted this?”
Her face softens like she’s seeing an old friend, and her hand reaches out to trace over the brushstrokes. “Of course I did. So good to meet her again. How are you getting along?”
“Can I come in?” I ask, lowering it.
“That good, huh?” Her eyes narrow, but she opens the door wide. “As long as you bring her with you.”
Together, the painting and I step over the threshold.
Inside, Anneli’s place is sparse but neatly furnished with mid-century modern knockoffs and secondhand finds, colorful and functional. She leads me toward her square little kitchen where she makes us each a cup of Earl Grey, pouring mine into an Oslo souvenir mug.
“I had no idea you were the artist,” I tell her as I take my mug.
